


My ghosts are gaining on me

by gealach



Series: Thy fearful symmetry [2]
Category: Dark Wolverine (Comics), Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Marvel (Comics), Uncanny Avengers
Genre: Angst, Daken's Poor Life Choices, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Masochism, Suicidal Thoughts, You're warned, also I feel that last tag should be a Thing, also last time, copyright of that last tag courtesy of Miutinichisheno, mentions of rape/non-con, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:56:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4407368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealach/pseuds/gealach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That door should remain locked; it's but a kindness, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My ghosts are gaining on me

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Evanescence's _All that I'm living for_
> 
> I've reread this so many times that my eyeballs are begging for mercy x_x I'll release this into the wild and go hide in a corner. I'm sorry.
> 
>  
> 
> **PLEASE, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS**
> 
>  
> 
> .

Johnny walked like a man who had lost everything.

His steps measured the loss; the bravado in his voice set the tempo for the lamentation: no pauses, to avoid thinking; loud, to cover his thoughts; meaningless, because nothing had meaning. The vapid doll that clutched at his arm with the expression of one who couldn't believe her luck, and who was breathing in every pointless word Johnny uttered, only made the picture even more painful to watch. It was an embarrassing display, one Daken would have preferred not to ever bear witness to – something in that vulnerability rendering him deeply uncomfortable.

He watched from the shadows as Johnny and the woman approached the spot he was hiding in, counted his own heartbeats as they walked closer and closer – he could leave, after all; he had many other places to go, many contacts he could exploit, even in this very city; and did he really want to be seen like this? Malfunctioned, taken again and twisted to another's whim, his skin the proof of the violation; not even death had freed him.

Johnny mourned a loss; Daken mourned a gain, mourned coming back, mourned the shackles that once again had closed around his wrists.

Mocking came easy, because the ghost staggering by him was a _carbon copy_ of him, a fool who wore on his sleeve what Daken could only bite back – the control he exercised over himself was the only thing keeping him from making a fool of himself as Johnny was doing.

And as a drowning fool who still thinks help could come his way –

(he'd fought, at the end. He didn't want to remember, he didn't want to _recall_ , the water in his lungs clouding his judgment, sheer panic taking hold of him, the hand on his nape strong and unforgiving like Natsumi's eyes, like Akihira's voice, like Romulus' presence)

– he exhaled, like a prayer:

“Johnny.”

He hadn't been heard; he couldn't possibly have been heard. His voice was low, so low it had sounded like a sigh to his own enhanced senses; but like a puppet whose strings are suddenly yanked, Johnny _stopped._ He stood still and didn't turn.

He hadn't heard Daken; he couldn't possibly have heard him. Had Daken unconsciously released a stream of pheromones, a siren call, a command? Weak, and pathetic. Ridiculous. He was better than this; hadn't he learnt anything?

Perhaps he'd learnt too much.

“Johnny,” he called, clearly this time.

And this time Johnny turned.

His eyes – big, wide, clear, and yet tired, wary – searched the shadows; his heartbeat's hammering was audible even from this far and despite the traffic; with a hand he pushed the woman away from him.

“Go away,” he told the woman, “Walk quickly. Don't come back,” and the quiver in his voice – that made him sound so different from cocky, endearing, heroic Johnny – made the woman obey him immediately.

It also made Daken's stomach churn unpleasantly, drop with uneasiness, bile rushing up to his mouth. What had he expected? Really, _truly_ , what had he expected? Well before planning this meeting, he had taken into account the distrust Johnny would surely display; he'd known it would be like this. How could it be any different, with how things had ended between them... with the damage Daken had carved into the city, into the beating heart of Johnny's own home?

 _Sentiment_ , chided a known, loathed voice, and he shut it down, furious at himself. He was a fool, a weakling, a craven broken thing. A puppet who played at being a puppeteer. An ignorant child. He had only his masks, and so he wore one with practiced ease.

“Really?” He called lightly from the darkness, and Johnny's eyes were drawn to the spot he was hiding in. “I'm _wounded_ , Johnny.”

“What do you want?” Johnny tightened his fists, clenched his jaw – ready for a fight he knew he couldn't possibly win, not without his powers. His face was set, closed, unreachable. Daken ignored the tightening in his chest, brushed away the flare of panic discernible in Johnny's increased perspiration.

“Can't I come by and visit a friend?”

Johnny's eyes widened. “You're a fucking piece of work, you know that?”

“I've been told that, yes.”

“We _aren't_ friends,” Johnny spat, taking a step in his direction, suicidal and angry, and Daken ignored that stab too; his own indignant reaction was ridiculous. “You put a bomb in front of the Baxter Building!”

“Come on, Johnny, nobody got hurt. You _heroes_ saved everyone, didn't you?”

“You _betrayed_ me!” Johnny's voice broke, and he lowered his head. “I thought you were my friend, but you only wanted access – to Reed's work, to – I don't know, to our resources. I was only means to an end. Wasn't I?”

True. And true. And true. Then why did Johnny's words cut so deeply? Why did his rage and his fear put such a sour taste in Daken's mouth? Why did seeing Johnny like that – his powers gone, exhaustion on his face, lost, without any purpose – make him so nauseous?

“Yes.” It wasn't what he'd wanted to say, but the word came unbidden out of his mouth, and yet relief washed over him as he uttered it. He detected an unknown quality in his own voice, a unrefined chord. Almost a weariness, perhaps. He wouldn't know.

Johnny's shoulders sagged, and Daken scrambled to regain his wits. He could use the sudden clear moment of honesty to his advantage, after all. “Johnny,” he said tentatively, trying the bitter tone out, searching for a way to work it in his voice as he spoke... and it touched something in Johnny, his head rising to search the shadows again, with an almost hopeful look in his eyes that was part searched for and part suddenly dreaded by Daken. “I wouldn't bother you if it wasn't urgent. I – find myself in need of help. You're the only one I trust.”

Truth, again; the best lies were the ones coated in it. Ridiculous, too; as if he hadn't learnt yet that he sufficed to himself, that he was the only one he could count on.

Johnny closed his eyes. “What do you want?” His voice was tired, and heavy, and resigned. It twisted Daken's guts.

“I need a place to stay. Just for a few nights,” he added as Johnny opened his eyes again. There were dark circles under them, Daken saw suddenly, and he was unbearable to look upon. Grey. Dead. Devoid of living and his characteristic warmth. His flames, gone; his fire, extinguished.

“You disappeared.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were dead. _Again_.” Johnny's voice broke as if he were on the verge of tears. Normally, Daken would have used it; but he stood in the shadows, the bile rising again. “I thought you'd blown up to pieces. I _mourned_ you.”

“I thought you didn't consider us friends anymore,” Daken said, instead of keeping his fucking mouth shut, and Johnny winced.

“Fuck you.” He said weakly, and passed a hand through his hair. “Seriously, fuck you. You show up and want help? You say you _trust_ me?” He laughed, raw and terrible, so different from his usual bright laughter. “I'm useless now, haven't you heard? The _burnt out_ torch. What could possibly have happened to make you crawl to me?”

Daken stepped into the lights of the street.

Johnny started, and blinked, and stared. He stared, and stared, and stared.

“You're blue,” he exhaled eventually.

“Yes. Thank you for stating the obvious, Johnny.” Daken retired to the shadows once more. “I can't go around as I normally do; this look is too conspicuous. Until I find a way to reverse it, I need a place to stay. You're the only one I trust.”

“Haven't you got safehouses?” Johnny said quietly, but if he hadn't opposed yet, this was just pro forma, to assuage his guilt in knowing he would submit to Daken's request.

“I've been gone for too long. I can't be sure there won't be unpleasant surprises.” Like Creed, for example. God, he wanted to bury his claws in the bastard. But until he got on his feet again, until he tried out his new powers, until he was sure he had a firm hold of his _old_ powers, until he was sure that drowning and reviving hadn't affected anything in him – that would have had to wait.

Johnny chewed the inside of his cheek. “And this is the only thing you want.”

“Yes. Just a quite place to stay in, Johnny. I won't bother you.”

“And you won't kill any of my guests.”

“That would be _counterproductive_ , albeit it _would_ liven up your parties –”

Johnny inhaled sharply.

“Relax, Johnny. I promise, no assassinations. Don't you trust me?”

“I'd be a fool to.” Johnny said bitingly, “Better for you to be in my house, than to let you go and _kill_ someone to gain access to theirs.”

“You _wound_ me, Johnny.” Truly, the words cut deep inside him in a way that made him wince. He tried to shrug the uneasiness off, but it stayed, a thick layer covering his lungs.

He reached behind to cover his head with the hood of his sweatshirt, hiding his features and his conspicuous hue, and stepped out of the shadows once more. Johnny eyed him warily, and Daken pretended it didn't matter, told himself he didn't care.

But it was difficult to lie to himself; even as Johnny finally turned to led them away on the sidewalk, silent, a stiffness in his muscles, his eyes remained alert to every movement Daken made, to every slight change in his pace; and if Daken happened to move closer, Johnny would hastily move away. Johnny was afraid. Because he didn't have his powers, because he couldn't counterattack in case Daken decided to try something... because he _thought_ Daken _could_ try something; and yet he was leading the monster to his house.

 _Well done_ , Daken thought to himself, and even his own thoughts had that bitter quality. _I had it and I took it and I ruined it, and this is what remains. A masterpiece, indeed._

They hadn't broken their silence yet when they finally entered Johnny's large penthouse, on the top of one of the highest skyscrapers in the city; and Johnny led him to one of the guestrooms. He stood in the doorway as Daken walked inside: he was rigid, his arms crossed; he was probably asking himself what the hell was he doing, wondering perhaps if Daken was _making_ him do this, Daken's pheromones' existence surely having been disclosed to him.

Daken sat on the bed and flashed a smile at Johnny, one of those that would usually win him a grin in return; but only empty eyes met his gaze. Daken kept the smile firmly fixed on his face. “Thank you, Johnny. It's perfect.”

“Whatever.” Johnny gritted his teeth. “You won't come out of this room when I have guests.” Ah, yes. _Guests_. Johnny's huge parties were the new vogue in the city, the event every vermin wanted to be invited to. The opportunity to watch a hero fall was always alluring, and they could dance till dawn and intoxicate themselves in the process: a perfect match. Did they see the emptiness in Johnny's eyes? Did they care? Was Daken so hypocritical as to affirm he did? _Did_ he? He settled his features into a mask of indifference. “I'll lock your room,” Johnny continued, “You won't be heard, or seen. Okay?”

“That's pretty strict, Johnny. Are you afraid I'll embarrass you?”

“I won't have you endanger my guests. Are we _agreed?_ ” Johnny asked, firm, no warmth in his voice, in his eyes; and Daken felt so cold, so _cold_ , and had to turn his head away.

“Of course, Johnny. I wouldn't want anyone to see me like this, anyway.” Daken pushed back the hood, passed a hand through his hair. His reflection in the large window stared back at him, and he bit back a snarl at seeing the color of his skin, of his eyes. He grimaced, a sudden thought making this almost _funny_. Almost. “I'll gladly be your madwoman in the attic.”

 

* * *

 

And he was, for a few days. He kept inside the room when the house was filled with people, the smell of sex and booze and sweat overcoming his senses, the constant thump of loud music violating his ears. He stood at the edges, audience to the downfall. It wasn't funny; it was gut-wrenching, in a way that made him reel. Perhaps he _would_ have found it funny, at the beginning: when he was worming his way into the perfect family, when he was exploiting the weakest link; he'd fantasized of taking the poster boy and coat him with decadence, of making his beauty and naivete decay. He'd fantasized of turning Johnny's smile into a rotten thing.

It hadn't lasted; Johnny had a way of slithering under his skin, an innocence that was too perfect to be broken. It was refreshing, and Johnny would simply be more useful if undamaged, after all. It had been a conscious decision, brought about by the shifting of his plans; or so Daken had told himself.

This ghost had nothing of that fresh simplicity. A ghost: because he would avoid Daken, only approaching his room to unlock the door when the parties were over, and locking himself onto his own room, almost like he feared Daken would kill him in his sleep. He would sleep most of the day, waking up in the afternoon, and leave immediately; and he would return a few hours later, either with a large group of people or a single woman.

The first time the latter had happened, Daken had listened in on the noises coming from Johnny's bedroom until he'd had to shove a hand down his trousers and bring himself off, on his underlids images as if conjured by a fever – nightmarish visions of Johnny covered in Daken's own blood, Johnny staring at him with hatred, Johnny thrusting into him with force, furious and self-righteous and aflame. Later, gasping for breath, drenched with sweat, he'd told himself the fantasy had been conjured by his own frustration, by the sheer amount of time that had passed from his last fuck.

(The last fuck he'd had was Creed. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to remember his weakness and his self-loathing and Creed's weight, he didn't want to recall Creed's sneer, or _worse_ , Creed's concerned, paternal, ridiculously manipulative words.)

(The last fuck had been when he was alive. Not that he'd felt alive at the time. But he had been, nonetheless.)

(The last fuck had been Before. There was a Before and there was an After, and of what had been In-between, Daken had muddy memories he didn't want to think about, visions that kept him awake at night.)

Staying in the penthouse was absurd; he was holding on to something that wasn't there, that had _never_ been there; he had other places he should crawl into, holes where he could bury himself, where he wouldn't have to witness Johnny's downward spiral. This was morbid. Was he staying because he hoped Johnny would eventually call for help? Maybe a flock of heroes would one night come out of the sky to take Daken into custody. Logan would stay behind – what he'd done probably eating at him. But no, Johnny wasn't even capable of helping himself right now. Hadn't Daken been as much incapable of the same as Johnny was, Daken would have perhaps tried to fix this. He couldn't give Johnny his powers back, couldn't fix that wound; but he yearned to mend that other wound, the one he himself had inflicted.

He was an _idiot_ , because he wanted something back, something that he'd constructed and then ruined.

The fifth night of Daken's stay, Johnny sent his _guests_ away relatively early, and when he came to unlock Daken's door, he hesitated, standing behind it, breathing quietly. Daken was sitting cross-legged on the bed wearing only a pair of boxers, and had been trying to focus for quite some time now. As the moment grew and stretched – as Johnny kept standing behind the door – Daken opened one eye, then the other, dreadful anticipation sending shivers down his spine.

Johnny opened the door, pale and stiff; and stood there for eons, his eyes blazing. Daken sat, staring back with indifference, wishing he had worn all of his clothes instead of climbing on the bed like this, but the air had been suffocating tonight. Now scrambling for them would bring attention to the fact that he was uneasy in exposing his skin like that, he that hadn't ever cared about such things, that had used _others_ ' uneasiness at his lack of clothing to his advantage.

Eventually Johnny spoke, his voice monotone.

“When are you going to leave, exactly?”

“As soon as I solve this.”

“ _This_.” Johnny grimaced, and walked into the room. He stopped at a few feet from the bed. “What is it, exactly, that you're trying to do?”

“Control,” Daken said simply. When Johnny arched an eyebrow, he went on: “Others who were forced to experience the predicament I currently find myself in are known to have managed to hide at least the outward signs of the change. I possess the mental fortitude required to achieve such an effect.” Lies, nothing more than lies. He didn't possess that mental strength; he never had. He was fooling himself in thinking so. Hadn't he learnt anything? Hadn't the twins proven it?

“Still blue, though.”

“Yes.” Daken gritted his teeth. “Still blue.”

“And with such expressive red eyes.” Johnny toyed with danger. He saw that Daken was pissed off and yet he was keeping with the cruel teasing – cruelty wasn't in his chords, but he was making a good job of it, all things considered. Was he courting death? Did he _want_ Daken to stab him? Was he suicidal?

“Why do you want to change?” Johnny continued when Daken didn't deign him of an answer, “Blue becomes you, I think. Makes you stand out. Or maybe you don't want that. It would be difficult to go around and kill people, when anyone could recognize you with just a glimpse of your skin, wouldn't it?”

“I'm perfectly capable of killing _without_ being seen, Johnny.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Johnny went on, a recklessness in his eyes. “What is it, then? You don't feel pretty anymore? The color doesn't compliment your features? You don't want to buy new clothes? _Kill_ for new clothes? You're afraid people will run away screaming at the sight of you, the monster brought out, visible, for everyone to see,” he spat, walking towards the bed, and yes, he _was_ suicidal. Daken should've known. “You shouldn't worry, after all you have your _pheromones_ , don't you? Why don't you _use_ them, then, to make me see you as human again?” he stabbed. “Too bad I've _seen_ it, Daken, I've seen the rot under your skin. You could regain your original color again, but I _know_ the cruel creature you are –”

“It's not the _color_ ,” Daken snarled to shut him up. He wanted to shut Johnny up. He didn't want to hear the truth in the words. “It's its meaning. It _marks_ me. It brands me as a slave. _Again_ ,” he chocked out, as if that could explain anything, a child screaming for help – an _idiot_ who fooled himself into thinking Johnny would detect the tone in his voice and _stop,_ instead of picking at the festering wound like he _ought_ to. A fool showing weakness, showing the exposed side, trying to use it as a shield. Pathetic.

And Johnny was still a hero, deep inside, in his bones; even if he was playing at being a heartless, uncaring, empty bastard.

His brows knitted. “A _slave?_ ”

 _Don't make a fool of yourself_ , a loathed voice said, and Daken shut it down, furious and grateful at the same time, a pathetic child. “I only wanted to be left alone,” he choked out, “I only wanted that. And they took me and brought me back and _marked_ me, like a property, _their_ property, made me dance to their tune. I couldn't leave,” _Stop talking. Stop. talking_ , he thought, but he couldn't, and Johnny was staring, and he couldn't. What a pathetic weakling, bringing attention to his shortcomings as if that could excuse what he'd done, as if his grievances could somehow erase their last meeting – how manipulative of him. “I _couldn't_ leave, Johnny. Everytime I thought to, there was a stab in my brain. They acted like we had a choice, but we hadn't. It was _simple_ to pretend we had, to say to each other we were staying because of what they were offering us –” a hundred years to torture Logan. What a poor prize, that only showed that the twins hadn't understood a thing about him. Then again, they'd had no need to; they'd had no need to bother to keep the four of them in line in any way, because they already held their _souls_ . “And I _let_ them do that. Had I been stronger – had my mind been stronger –” a weakling, a broken thing, an eager puppet. Romulus was right, Romulus had _always_ been right. “Had I – I only wanted to be left alone. Why didn't they leave me _alone?_ ” Never in his life – maybe as a child, at the very beginning – had such a sharp _ridiculous_ cry escaped his lungs.

Johnny sat beside him, all big eyes and earnest concern, and it made Daken feel nauseous. “Jesus. What happened?” he asked, and Daken snorted.

“You don't care. It's still me, Johnny. The _cruel creature_. I used you, betrayed you, and put bombs all over New York. Remember?”

“You're suffering.”

“Maybe I'm playing with you.”

“Jesus Christ, stop it.” Johnny spat, and clenched his jaw. He sat there for a long time, gaze hard. “I'm not an idiot. You won't play me again. I won't let you. But I'm not blind, either. Something fucked you up, and you can tell me about it. If you want.”

He didn't want to; it would expose how pathetic he was. How weak a control he had over himself.

“I killed myself,” he said, and heard Johnny's heart skip a beat. He shrugged. “It's as if had, anyway. I knew and did nothing to stop it; it's how I always wanted to go, maybe, deep inside. There was no coming back, and I knew that too, but I let him. I _let_ him kill me. I thought he would stop. When I realized he wouldn't, I lay there anyway. Maybe it was for the best, wasn't it? I remember I thought that. At the end my body offered some semblance of resistance, but it was too late. I let him kill me,” he repeated quietly to himself.

“Who?” Johnny asked, equally quiet.

“It's not important.” Daken grimaced. “I was fine. It was fine. There was nothing, and I was fine.” There hadn't been _nothing_. There had been _something_ , lurking, but he didn't want to remember that. That had been In-Between, and that was not to be recalled. “And then I was pulled away, brought back, and I was like this. A puppet devoted to a crusade I cared nothing about. Along with others. We were brought back from the dead. They used us.” He fell silent again.

“But you're here,” Johnny said. “Did they let you go? You and – these others?”

“No. They simply failed in their ridiculous endeavor. That gave us some – space to move, let's say.”

“You killed them,” Johnny exhaled. There was resignation in his voice.

“Well, no.” Daken sighed. “We should have, but we thought it could sever the link with our bodies once more. We _felt_ it when one of them was killed by the Avengers. So we simply left the other one. She was aggravated by the death of her twin, and didn't really care about our leaving.”

“Wait a second.” Johnny started. “Twins, and the Avengers? Those crazy people in space? The _mutant rapture?_ You were there?”

“Not by my choice.”

“No.” Johnny bit his lower lip, staring at him. “Because they _took_ you,” he added softly, as if he were talking to a child, or someone who needed to be handled with great care. “But you don't want to – return to that state now. Do you? You would have killed her if you had. You said you thought it would return you all to death.”

“A doubt that held our hands, yes.”

Johnny reached out suddenly to grab Daken's hand, and then stared at it as if he were holding a snake, his gaze wary. Daken ignored the tightening of his stomach at the sight of that distrust.

Johnny had no powers anymore, but his hand was warm. Perhaps the sensation was due to the contrast with Daken's temperature, as low as a corpse's ever since he'd come back. “Do you still want to?” Johnny asked, voice immeasurably soft. “Do you want to die?”

He cared. Johnny _cared_ , even after everything, and it was unbearable.

“No,” Daken lied.

Johnny nodded, and Daken bit back the disappointment at his lie not being exposed. “I want to, sometimes,” Johnny said quietly, and squeezed Daken's hand. “I feel like I'm dead already. Like I never came back from the Negative Zone. That's stupid. I'm not going through some great terrible change... I'll always be _me_ , even without my powers. I just – feel lost. I have my sister – I know I have her. And my family. My friends. I'm not alone.” _Whereas I am_ , Daken bit back the words. Johnny was just using him as a shoulder to cry on: he didn't care about Daken. Johnny was reaching out, sharing his grief, thinking it would help Daken: he cared about Daken. What was it, of the two? “That would be selfish of me. Dying.”

“It's not selfish,” Daken snapped. “Anyone who says suicide is selfish doesn't _understand_ what it's like.”

Johnny widened his eyes; his fingers twitched. “I meant –”

“What sort of righteous bastard gets to decide what you want to do with your life? _I_ ought to decide that _. I_ ought decide what _I_ want. No one else. Do you understand?” He didn't know what had gotten into him; he only knew that Johnny had to understand that. It was the only thing he had left, the _only_ control he could truly exercise over himself. They could use him, and misuse him, and abuse him, bring him back all they wanted, but _that_ he could still do. He could put an end to it. If he wanted to. And oh God, did he _want to_ , the only thing stopping him the bodiless shadows he remembered lurking at the bottom of his mind, the pits that were In-between. But even those were preferable to the knowledge he had been taken, and broken, and _used_ again, and he _always_ would be, that he _wasn't_ free, he'd _never_ been –

Johnny's hand was on his arm, and his eyes were huge and clear and _worried_ , so close to him. “Daken? You said you'd been made a slave _again_. What did you –”

 _No._ Not his weakness exposed, not in front of _Johnny_. Daken yanked Johnny's shirt and crashed his mouth on him, his lips silencing the dreaded question. Johnny yelped in surprise, his fingers tightening on Daken's arm, but he didn't move away, not immediately. He even responded, for a moment, his tongue sliding into Daken's mouth.

It was the culmination of all the hard work he'd put into carving his own space into Johnny's mind like a parasite, and it felt pointless. There was no finesse in this. He just wanted to shut Johnny up. He just wanted to feel something. He just wanted to stop thinking of the crevices, of the void, of his letting go and letting himself be drowned. He wanted to drown into Johnny instead, to tear his way in, to hide like the pitiful child he was.

Johnny pulled away. “I don't think this is a good idea,” he said, but he was breathless and flushed and smelt of arousal, his heartbeat increased, his pupils dilated. He wanted Daken.

He'd _better_ have, with all the effort Daken had put into it. “I need you,” Daken panted, and the hitch in his breath was real. He did. This was easier: easier to handle. Carnality was predictable. Mechanical. Safer. There was a method to it, exploitable by those who unlocked its secrets. It was nothing more than a game of parts fitting into other parts, and he knew this game; he could play it to avoid talking. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to face Johnny's worried gaze. He wanted Johnny's mouth instead, Johnny's hands. He was, always and intimately, a creature of habits. It was the same old, disgusting, predictable cycle, ingrained in him from his _childhood_ , but he didn't care. Not here. Not now. He pulled and pushed and dragged, and Johnny followed, wide-eyed, unsure, but eager, his mouth on Daken's once again, his hands on Daken's arms.

It wasn't long before they were lying naked on the bed; Johnny hovered above him with uncertainty in his eyes, his breathing heavy, his pulse that of one who knows he's making a mistake. Just moments ago he'd been wary of Daken, as he ought to be; now he was caressing him, his movements delicate and careful, his gaze never lowering to Daken's groin, but instead fixed on Daken's face. His eyes were bright, feverish, and rendered him unbearable to gaze upon. He was simply, in a word, soft. _Too_ soft: all the edge he'd sported the past few days was gone. Daken had hoped Johnny would be more violent, that the unavoidable confrontation would make him bleed; and instead here he lay, looking up at Johnny like a sacrifice that walks willingly to the altar only to realise that the officiant is having second thoughts.

Johnny lowered his head, but he didn't kiss him. “Are you sure you don't want to talk?” he breathed instead. “Daken, you're not fine. You aren't –” he grimaced, “– you.”

 _As if you knew me._ Daken reached up to kiss him, his tongue searching Johnny's. Johnny responded, only to tilt his head back a second later. Daken growled in annoyance.

“No, really.” Johnny shook his head. “You aren't fine. And I'm not – I'm not myself. Not like this. I don't want to –”

“That doesn't stop you from fucking nameless women into your mattress, it appears.” Daken threw his arms around Johnny's neck, brought him closer. Johnny's eyes flashed in annoyance. Daken wanted that bite. That edge. “Where is your concern for _their_ feelings?”

Johnny clenched his jaw. “It's different.”

“How? Because you know me? Because I'm not a stranger? If it makes you feel better, I am, and you don't. You _don't_ know me, Johnny. I used you. Remember?” he sneered the word, brought Johnny's head closer to his. “So now you get to use me instead. All those nasty things you thought of doing to me, Johnny. Do them.”

“Daken –”

“I _want_ you to. Fuck me.”

Johnny shook his head. He almost looked sad, and Daken was losing him, losing the ground. “I won't play by your rules, Daken. I'm not doing it.”

“I _need_ you,” escaped Daken's mouth again, unbidden and ridiculous, panic flaring in his voice. “Please.” It sounded little, and weak, and childish. A cry for attention. A stupid –

And Johnny's hands were on him once more, caressing his chest, his stomach; an unbearable softness was in his eyes, and Daken had to shut his own. He didn't want to see them. He didn't want to see the pity in them. He didn't know what was worse: that, or the gentleness with which Johnny was touching him, the exact opposite of what Daken had wanted; the way he found himself _trembling_ was an embarrassment. This wasn't how this had been supposed to happen. It was all wrong. It was flowing in a different direction and he couldn't stop it – he had no more control over this than he had over himself. It was supposed to be different. He had paved the way for this for _months_ and now he was just lying there, letting Johnny decide for him. It was pathetic.

Johnny's hand stilled on Daken's hip. “I've never – you know. With a man.”

Daken opened his eyes. Johnny sat on his heels beside him, an uncertainty in his gaze. He was staring between Daken's legs as if he'd never seen an erect cock in his life beside his own.

Daken could still take the reins, then. Just a tiny bit. A mockery of the control he was supposed to have.

He propped himself up on an elbow, trying his best to ignore the color of his skin, the sick violet that tinged his corona. “It will be just the same for you, Johnny. It's just a hole.”

Johnny winced. “That's _crude_.”

“Sorry. I'm nervous.” This was a delicate moment. Show too much coldness, too much control – even if simulated – and Johnny could just as well decide to leave. Show that disgusting weakness again, bare himself, and he would have to bear that softness in Johnny's eyes. He didn't know what would be better. He found himself craving that softness, but he wanted to be mauled by Johnny too. He could provoke Johnny to that effect, maybe. Force him to be a beast and then loathe himself in the morning. But Johnny was loathing himself enough already, and Daken couldn't bear to give the final blow.

Strange, that.

He placed a hand on Johnny's, settling for shy reluctance with a touch of eagerness. “I've – I've been wanting this for a long time.”

“Yes. Me too.” Johnny blushed like a little girl, the redness reaching his chest too. It was amusing in an endearing way. “Are you sure –?”

“Yes. No need to worry, Johnny. I can teach you.”

Johnny swallowed audibly, biting at his lower lip in embarrassment. “Yeah? Okay.” He gave a tiny nod and Daken nodded back.

“Let's start with the basics, then.” He guided Johnny's hand to his cock. “Penis.”

And Johnny was startled into a laughter. It was a good sound. “I _know_ that, Daken.” His fingers brushed hesitantly Daken's lenght. It sent shivers down Daken's spine.

“Mh-mh. Just making sure.” He felt his lips curl up in what wasn't a smirk, not quite. It was... strange. Not what he'd thought he would do: a gentle teasing. But it felt appropriate, somehow. He guided Johnny's hand a little lower. “Scrotum.”

“Yeah, okay –” Johnny rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and brushed his fingers against the sack. Daken heard himself moan – just the smallest sound, and it was definitely an over-reaction, but it had been so long – he pushed his hips up, spread his legs to give Johnny more access. Johnny stopped his slow gentle caress and looked overwhelmed for a moment. “Oh.”

“What?” Daken gave a thrust upwards, and Johnny resumed brushing his fingers against Daken's balls, still maddeningly slowly.

“You look –” Johnny trailed off; his fingers were still moving, thankfully.

“Blue?” he couldn't help it: he heard the bitterness in his own voice. Johnny's gaze softened even more, a feat Daken had thought impossible.

“It's a good color. It becomes you,” Johnny echoed his own earlier words, but they lacked the venom they'd had. “You'll change it back, Daken, I'm sure –”

“Yes. Sure.” He didn't want to think about that again. Not now. He caught Johnny's fingers, and brought them lower still. The hesitant brush against the delicate flesh sent a jolt up his spine and he dropped his head backwards, baring his throat. “Perineum,” he gasped. “Sensitive area.”

“I see that.” Johnny's digits were slowly tracing circles, and Daken dug his fingers into Johnny's wrist. He felt he had no control over his own reactions. It was just because of the long time that had passed, he thought; but the anticipation was building in his stomach, hot and cold, in a way it never had, not even when Romulus would dig his nails deep into Daken's flesh.

Daken bit his tongue hard. _Don't think of that bastard now. Not now. Don't soil Johnny with his presence. Don't fall into that void._

He came back from the bottomless pit just when Johnny's fingers stilled in proximity of his entrance, and he bit back a curse when Johnny just kept _still_ instead of doing something. Anything. “There,” he hissed instead. “Class is over. Just fuck me.”

“Daken –”

“That's where your penis _goes_ , Johnny. Now, if you don't mind.”

“No,” Johnny said quietly, and this time Daken _did_ curse out loud, and raised his head to look at him. There was a fire in Johnny's eyes, his jaw was set. He looked beautiful. “I'm pretty sure I need to prepare you first. Right?”

Daken dropped back on the bed, a laughter escaping his lips despite the frustration. “Oh, you _do_ know something, don't you?”

“I know how it's supposed to go, okay?” Johnny bit his lower lip. “I just never _did_ it, Daken.” He hesitated, and then lowered himself, bracing himself on his forearm, his mouth searching Daken's. Daken responded as if he were drowning, with an intensity that _scared_ him, his hand clutching at Johnny's shoulder. He dragged him closer, chest to chest, and Johnny was unbalanced; he pressed his body against Daken, straddled Daken's thigh, his cock pressed against Daken's hipbone. His other hand was still between them, his wrist firmly held by Daken, and he cupped hesitantly Daken's balls.

The contact, that was what Daken wanted; the weight on him, and Johnny's scent filling his nostrils.

Johnny tilted his head back, rested his forehead on Daken's. “I want to do this right. Okay?”

“You run the show, Johnny.”

“Okay. I have lube in my –” he moved away, but Daken pulled him closer again.

“No. Don't leave me.” Maybe he would leave. Change his mind. Leaving the room would change everything, would make him see things in perspective again; he would realize what he was doing, would remember that Daken had betrayed him. Would maybe question if his reactions were provoked by Daken's pheromones, when in truth Daken was keeping them in check – they were volatile and unpredictable ever since he'd been brought back, and he'd found himself emitting them without his knowledge more than once already; but he would have noticed, Daken told himself, had he released them. Or maybe Johnny would flinch at the color of Daken's skin. From this close, it wasn't important, Johnny's own shadow covering Daken, but if he left – if he saw him for the _weakling_ he was – “There's no need for lube.”

“Look –”

Daken dragged Johnny's hand up again, brought it to his own mouth. He sucked Johnny's fingers slowly and thoroughly, and enjoyed the hitch in Johnny's breath, the way he was looking at Daken, as if transfixed.

He released Johnny's fingers eventually, and they were acceptably coated with Daken's own saliva. “There. It will suffice.”

“Are you sure –”

“Of course.” He led Johnny's hand down again. Johnny looked hesitant; his big earnest blue eyes glanced between their bodies, and it should have tested Daken's patience, it should have made him roll his eyes; but it was endearing, somehow. This wasn't the first time he coached someone through the act, but it felt different. It was different. In what, he still wasn't sure. “Just go slow. Begin with one finger.”

Johnny was careful – too careful, perhaps. It was maddening. Daken appreciated the sentiment, but it became painfully obvious after a few moments that Johnny didn't know what to _do_ with his finger. He was no amateur, of course; but he was doing it as if he were with a woman. This particular activity eluded him.

“Is this – is this okay?” he asked after a while, a furrow in his brows.

Daken nodded. “Yeah. Keep doing that.” The slow burn of the mechanical movement was pleasing on its own right, for the moment. Daken settled more comfortably on the covers and resolved to let Johnny work it out on his own; his focused expression was so endearing. It was... interesting to wait it out, interesting not to rush it. Daken could have prepared himself; he could even have made a _show_ of it, to leave Johnny bothered and frustrated and ready, but this was _better_ , in a way that was foreign. He reached out to stimulate Johnny instead, hand pumping slowly not to have him spill out on the covers – just a tease, to keep Johnny hard in case he got bored with the task currently at hand. Johnny let out a whimper, and his finger twitched inside Daken –

It brushed Daken's prostate. Daken cursed at the sensation, hips jolting up, back arching, his own fingers tightening around Johnny's cock.

Johnny's eyes widened almost comically. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, all concern and terror, and Daken couldn't help but laugh in delight. He grasped Johnny by the back of his neck and dragged him down to kiss him sloppily, breathy fits of laughter escaping his mouth. He hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected this weird lightness in his own chest, in his head.

Johnny was still staring down at him with concern, and Daken tilted his head back. “No. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Yeah?” Johnny smiled.

Daken hummed, and pushed his hips up in encouragement. “Yeah.”

“So I should keep doing it, then?” Johnny moved hesitantly his finger inside Daken till he brushed his prostate again, and Daken moaned, his fingers digging deeply in Johnny's shoulder. “Here?”

“ _Yes_ – and – _ah_.” Daken gasped at Johnny's merciless teasing. He'd gotten the gist of it pretty quickly. “ _More_.”

“Yeah? More fingers?” Johnny brushed his lips against Daken's jaw as he worked a second finger in. Daken cursed, tensed like a chord, and it got frantic very quickly. And loud. God. He'd never been _so_ loud and Johnny wasn't even _fucking_ him yet – Daken was ready to fuck himself on Johnny's fingers there and then, if Johnny didn't get on with it.

Mercifully, Johnny settled between his thighs – but he entered Daken slowly, far too slowly, a look of utter concentration in his eyes. Daken didn't want the attention, nor that maddening care. He wanted Johnny to fill him and pound into him; instead, Johnny was bracing himself on the bed, his hands on either side of Daken's head; and he was keeping _still._ There was a childlike wonder in his gaze, and Daken didn't want that either. Too soft, too soft. Daken pushed up against Johnny to have him _move_ , felt Johnny's cock go further inside him, and a whimper escaped his lips.

“ _Oh_.” Johnny's full lips rounded to form the sound, and he still wouldn't move; there was something in his eyes that Daken suddenly dreaded. He didn't want to see it. Not in Johnny's eyes. Johnny didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve this.

Daken shut his eyes.

“Daken? Are you all right?”

 _No. No, don't_ do _that. Please_. “Yes.”

“It feels different.” There was a terrible, terrible softness in Johnny's voice. Too soft, too soft, too soft. “It's – tight.”

“Yes. It's normal.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_ , Johnny.”

“It can't be comfortable for you. I –” Johnny pulled back, the drag against dry tissue sending white jolts of pain through Daken's entire body. Daken arched and hissed. More. He wanted more. He wrapped his legs around Johnny to hold him there.

“Don't you _dare_ ,” he growled. He opened his eyes, and Johnny was staring down at him, worry in his gaze. Too soft, too soft.

“I don't want to _hurt_ you –”

“Johnny, you can't possibly hurt me.” _And that's the damn problem. That, right there. You're too soft. If you weren't, you wouldn't be you._ Daken wrapped his arms around Johnny as well, pulled him closer. Chest to chest, that was what he wanted. He reached up to brush a kiss against Johnny's lips, uncharacteristically chaste for him. “I can take it. I want it. It's all right.” He pushed his hips up, and this time Johnny moved.

He rocked into Daken slowly, a crease of concentration in his forehead, a terrible care in his movements, a terrible softness in his eyes. Daken closed his own, and focused on the pain and the pleasure, on Johnny's scent and Johnny's skin and Johnny's breathing. He found himself digging his fingers in Johnny's back, and arching, pulling him closer, closer, closer to himself in a way that would never be. He wanted to carve a space for himself between Johnny's ribs, settle between his bones and muscles and organs.

He could have never. It would have meant to destroy Johnny.

He opened his eyes, and Johnny's eyes – God, they were terrible to behold. They were fixed on Daken and they were _terrible_ , too soft, too – too –

A sound escaped Daken's lips and he didn't manage to recognize it, too strange, too foreign, too old to remember what it was. He felt he had no control over his own facial muscles, as if it had all slipped, as if his masks had melted away, and his features were naked for Johnny to see, and he didn't even know what meaning they bore.

He only knew that it wouldn't last. That he didn't want it to last. That he wanted it to last. But that it would be better for it not to, yes, for it to stay hidden and away and forever unreachable –

“You're –” Johnny exhaled, soft, so soft, too soft, close and away, and Daken _had_ to cut it out now. “I –” Johnny's expression bore only one meaning, there was only one thing that Johnny could possibly be about to say, and Daken had to stop Johnny before he said it. He hooked his legs higher, brushing the small of Johnny's back with his heels, and shifted, slid lower down the bed under Johnny's weight, slid till he felt Johnny hit his prostate with his next thrust. The pleasure was electrical, and his broken moan gave Johnny the edge he'd needed: his thrusts grew deeper, his movements more erratic, and it wasn't long before he was crying out Daken's name like a prayer, pounding into him hard and fast and careless.

This was safer, this was _easier_ , the scent of sex, animals rutting, unthinking, all impulse and need, nothing else behind it. This game, Daken knew how to play, and he had to deal the last hand, ruin it, coat it with ugliness and leave it to rot. It was better this way. It was _just –_

He came and saw white, a wordless primeval sound escaping his mouth, loud and violent and desperate, but he didn't waste time trying to process its meaning; he let go of Johnny and pushed his hips up, rolled them over, reversed their positions with ease. Johnny fell back first on the bed, emitting a growl of protest, and Daken rode him to his orgasm with practiced precision, nothing but cold technique in his movements. It left Johnny shivering and writhing and thrusting up frantically, and his fingers dug painfully in Daken's thighs when he finally reached his climax.

He shut his eyes, his breath ragged, flushed and slick with sweat, beautiful in a way that was unbearable, and he didn't deserve what Daken was about to do.

He hadn't deserved what Daken had already done, either.

Daken wore his mask.

Johnny opened his eyes, blinking blearily, slowly; a terrible soft smile dawned on his lips.

He felt the change in Daken before seeing it, and already he was tensing, the smile fixed on his face like a rictus.

He begged for mercy first, or maybe he was just in denial: “I missed you.”

Daken went straight for the killing blow, mercy guiding his hand. “Yes. It tends to happen when you develop an addiction to a substance, Johnny.”

“What?” Johnny's fingers were stuck rigidly in Daken's thighs, and Daken rolled forwards, working a leer into his face when Johnny whimpered at the overstimulation. Johnny's eyes were wide and pleading. He wanted mercy: Daken was giving it to him. He was doing it for Johnny. It was _better_ this way.

“Pheromones, Johnny. They're quite addictive. They tend not to be needed anymore, after a while. But, well... I wanted to make sure they still worked. I hope you don't mind.” Daken reached between them as he lifted himself; Johnny's come trailed down his thighs, and he caught some of it with his fingers, traced a line on Johnny's stomach with it. “It sure looks like you liked it.”

The horror dawning on Johnny's face was gut-wrenching. “What are you talking about?”

“What am I – ah, yes. You've always been so slow.” Daken deseated himself with a wet obscene noise. “It gets annoying so very quickly.” He cocked his head, and smiled, all teeth. “I've just raped you, Johnny.”

Johnny's face contorted. “No.”

“Oh, yes.”

“ _No_ ,” Johnny let go of him, dragged himself up and away; his back hit the headboard. “No, you – I –” he shook his head, and Daken went for the jugular, bit and snarled and ruined _everything_.

“Oh, are you going to _cry?_ It might be entertaining. I could stick around for the show.”

“What are you _talking_ about,” Johnny cried out, a few tears already gathering at the corners of his eyes, and Daken reached out to cup his face in a mockery of tenderness. Johnny winced, and Daken forced himself to keep the sneer firmly in place, stopped himself from flinching in return.

This was for the best. It was for Johnny's best: to make him _see_ Daken, to make him see the monster and turn away, free; the words Daken had stopped him from saying where a terrible weight between them, a bottomless pit that would lead Johnny to utter ruin. It was the only thing that Daken could do for him: a _kindness_.

Johnny was shaking his head now, stuttering, “What are you saying, no, I – you were – you were suffering, and I – I –”

“Yes, that play always works so well. It was quite _devious_ of you, let me tell you,” Daken pouted, dried some of Johnny's tears with his thumb. “Taking advantage of me like that. Don't feel bad,” he added, because this could be spun in the other direction too: Johnny could maybe beat himself over that, and it wouldn't do. “I _made_ you do it, Johnny boy.”

“You – I –” Johnny was still shaking his head, crying freely now, covering himself with a hand. He felt violated. Daken knew the feeling, he remembered it from when he was too young to understand what was happening. If he'd been strong back then, if only – but he'd never been. Never. Never. “How could you? How – no. _No_.”

Why did Johnny believe the lie so easily?, Daken wondered, a void dragging open in his chest; but he was just that good a liar. The only thing he was good at.

“You said you needed help, you – I trusted you, I – _Why?_ ” Johnny cried out.

“Why? Oh, Johnny. Johnny, Johnny, _Johnny_.” Daken brought his own hand to his mouth, licked the salt of Johnny's tears away from his thumb. “There has to be a reason, right? So that you can make sense of it. So that you can clutch at that bare minimum of sanity. But people like me don't need a reason, Johnny.” Romulus hadn't needed a reason, either; he hadn't needed a reason to tear Daken apart and form him to his liking and leaving him stranded with nothing – all his life a lie. “I could tell you it's because I needed to be sure my pheromones were still working. But the truth, Johnny dear? I did it because I could. Because it amused me.”

“No.” Johnny was still shaking his head convulsively, “No. I don't believe it, you're _lying_ , I – I know what we _did_. It wasn't _that_ , it was, it – it was – we –” His breath hitched in his throat, the unspoken words _obvious_ , and Daken felt he couldn't breathe.

“It was a damn good fuck, that's what it was,” he sneered. “You're so _responsive_ , Johnny.” Johnny shut his eyes, and turned his head to the side. Daken went on unmercifully. “I would have fucked you, but I had an _itch_ , you see. Maybe next time? Would you _like_ me to?” he snorted; had he laughed, the sound would have sounded fake. He was sure of it. “Wait. Of _course_ you would like it.”

“Next time?” Johnny whimpered, sheer horror in his voice.

“I could come by, some time. Visit an old friend. What do you think?”

“Just kill me now and be done with it,” Johnny said, his voice empty. Daken's heart skipped a beat, but this was good; the confirmation that what he'd said had struck true.

Johnny would survive. He was strong; he had friends who would come by eventually, people who would take care of him. He would come out of his downward spiral, eventually; not unscathed, but certainly not alone.

And violation was something one could overcome. Daken himself had. It wasn't the _violation_ that hurt; it was the betrayal. Johnny would now see him as the cruel creature he was; he wouldn't ever trust Daken again, were he to see him.

It was for the best.

He had to leave, now. Leave Johnny alone. _Never_ approach him again. Never ruin him, _never_.

“Kill you? And rid the world of such a nice body? That would be a crime.” He rose from the bed with practiced disinterest, a smirk fixed on his face. “No, Johnny... I think I'll keep you alive. I never know when could I need you, after all. You _are_ a good fuck.”

Johnny didn't as much as wince, his eyes empty. It was for the best, Daken told himself: for the _best_. He leant over Johnny to catch his clothes, and he heard Johnny's breath hitch, his heartbeat increase like that of a scared little bird.

Daken forced another snort out of himself and patted Johnny's cheek affectionately. Johnny was rigid, and accepted the gesture with passivity.

It was, suddenly, too much: he had to leave _now_ . He had to leave before Johnny broke down, he had to leave before he _himself_ broke down and groveled on the floor, begging for forgiveness. He didn't deserve forgiveness, didn't deserve Johnny. He was doing this, he was _ruining_ this for Johnny, only for him.

“Oh, calm down, lover,” he managed to sneer as he got dressed. “I'm leaving. The stench of self-pity in here is nauseating.” His clothes finally donned, he stood watching Johnny. He saw a fragile thing, a broken thing hunched on the bed.

Johnny would survive. He had to.

“See you around,” Daken said casually, as casually as he could, and he retraced his steps out of the room, the penthouse, the tower, away, away, away, a tightness in his chest, and kept saying to himself: _it's the right thing. The right thing to do._

Johnny would survive, would reach out to his friends, his family – would get back on his feet in no time.

Daken retired to the shadows once more.

 


End file.
